


My Love.

by Read_Eat_Sleep_Repeat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Political Marriage, Post-Canon, Sansa never married Ramsay, Sick Character, because I cannot ever accept that happened, first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-17 23:16:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Read_Eat_Sleep_Repeat/pseuds/Read_Eat_Sleep_Repeat
Summary: The war was won, spring was in sight. And mere moments ago, as he came through the gates of Winterfell, he had dared to hope for a better future.Until Sam found him, his face pale and his body shaking from the efforts of running towards him."Jon! I was worried you wouldn't get here in time" he greeted, gulping desperately. "Sansa is gravely ill."





	My Love.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to dab my toes into writing. I like Jonsa well enough, it isn't my OTP or anything. But, I got sick fed up of the hate towards Jonsas in social media that I thought fuck it, I'm going to contribute to their fandom out of spite against the people who can't just let people ship whatever they want. So yeah. Maybe I'll have another Jonsa story down the line but I'll probably focus on HP stuff tbh :)

"To bed with them!" a northern lord cried out, eagerly thrusting his cup in the air before joining in the bawdy laughter of his companions. 

Jon glanced at Sansa out of the corner of his eye as he set his cup back down with a gentle thump. Although she smiled indulgently at the cheering men, he could see her throat bob with a nervous swallow.

The chair screeched against the stones as he rushed to his feet, placing a protective hand upon his bride's shoulder and leveling the approaching Lords with a stern look.

"There will be no bedding ceremony," he commented lowly. He turned to Sansa, softening instantly as he outstretched his hand. "Shall we retire, my lady?"

Sansa's eyes glistened with gratitude as she accepted his hand with a nod.

Inside his chambers, his courage began to fade, even as his blood continued to run hot. Sansa cast a shy glance over her shoulder as she pushed the sleeve down, revealing the tempting trail of creamy skin.

Jon averted his eyes and then frowned at his stupidity. He would be seeing a lot more than her shoulder shortly, once he fulfilled what duty demanded.

Sansa needed him to be strong with her now, needed his support in making sure this delicate peace they had secured through sacred vows would endure.

After, as Sansa hummed contentedly into his side, he blinked up at the ceiling and wondered if all men would feel so torn between pleasure and shame as he did.

***

He didn't take his rights again. 

Sansa never asked him to either.

Things slowly started to look up as the snows began to melt. Harvests began to flourish, as did Sansa's smile. More often than not, Jon found himself smiling along with her, caught himself smiling at the sound of her soft voice as it stirred life into the castle once more.

Spending time with Sansa was easy, far more so than he ever could have guessed. She flourished with the spring around her, singing and dancing with flowers in her hair, her laughter bright as the sunrise. Sometimes, though, on his broodier days, he hated to hear such things. For how could someone like Sansa be happy with him and with a practically false marriage. Sometimes, he worried he would stifle her happiness like winter suffocated the warmth of summer.

"I made you a new tunic," she greeted him one day, presenting him with a grey garment and radiant smile.

"Thank you," he returned, touched.

Something stirred in his chest as he met her soft eyes, something far too frightening to acknowledge. So he pushed it down, thanked her again and did what he did best and left.

***

"Take care on the road  my Lord," Sansa commented as she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close. 

He nodded against the crook of her neck, moving slightly to place a chaste kiss to her rosy cheek.

"And you," he said, flushing when he realised how silly he sounded. And yet Sansa smiled so sweetly, as though genuinely touched at his regard for her well-being and then pressed a kiss of her own against his lips.

She waited in the courtyard as he mounted his horse, raised her hand demurely as he turned to look at her again. And though the goodbye wasn't as sad as the last time, when he had left to secure their survival, something pulled at his chest as he bowed his head gratefully for her smile and wave. 

He thought of how the world would have been better off destroyed by the Night King, than to carry on without Sansa's warmth.

***

A longing sigh escaped him as Winterfell rose against the horizon and he thought of the hot bath that awaited him. 

The war was won, spring was in sight. And mere moments ago, as he came through the gates of Winterfell, he had dared to hope for a better future.

Until Sam found him, his face pale and his body shaking from the efforts of running towards him.

"Jon! I was worried you wouldn't get here in time" he greeted, gulping desperately. "Sansa is gravely ill."

He had barely dismounted from his horse before he started into a run, shoving past the servants as he leapt the stairs two at a time in his haste to reach her chambers. Pushing the door open, he grimaced at the smell of sweat that assulted him.

Sansa was asleep, her skin as pale as the moon, the furs tucked tightly around her. She was so still that Jon felt a need to lean over her, just to make sure she was breathing. Behind him, he heard Sam's breathless pants as he closed the door.

"I honestly don't know if she'll make it Jon," his friend whispered, casting Sansa a sympathetic glance. "I've done what I can. It's up to the Gods now."

Jon nodded slowly, biting back the reply that there were no Gods. Instead, he dragged the chair Sansa had often sat at, the one she would mend his clothes in or make him new ones, and placed it at her bedside.

"Tell the servants to bring my supper in here."

"Jon," Sam murmured, shaking his head. "We shouldn't spend too much time in here."

"I don't care," Jon snapped, guilt immediately taking over as he caught Sam's wide eyes. "I...I have to be with her Sam...in case..." He swallowed, reaching to grasp Sansa's hand. He squeezed it gently, some part of him hoping his touch would be enough to stir her awake, would be enough to make her fight.

But Sansa slept on.

***

By the second day, Jon had begun to lose hope.

At first, he had spoken to her about his journey. He had never been one for retelling stories, often stating the bare minimum. But he had tried to recall anything that he could think that would please her. The young fawn and its mother, skipping across the field in front of them one day, the blue roses that had started to bloom by the streams. She remained asleep most hours, the few times she stirred was just to utter something unintelligible and moan helplessly. Sometimes she would open her eyes, glassy and unseeing as she looked at him. He would hold her head up and make her drink, as Sam had instructed. But then, she would fall back into slumber.

"You're lucky you haven't caught it too," Sam commented on the third morning as he pressed another cool cloth to Sansa's forehead. Jon frowned.

He didn't feel lucky as he sat there, praying to Gods that he no longer believed in, for his wife's life. He didn't feel lucky when he feared he might lose her just as he had begun to realise just how much she meant to him. 

"Is she going to make it?" he asked instead.

Sam tilted his head thoughtfully. "She's made it this far," he conceded after a moment. "She's a fighter."

Aye, Jon thought fondly. His wife could bare her wolf fangs against the world when she needed to. 

He just hoped her spirit would be enough to see her through.

***

"Jon?"

For a moment, Jon was sure he had dreamed the soft sound of Sansa's voice as he struggled to open his eyes against the sunlight bursting through the window. His neck was stiff from his head drooping in his slumber.

"Jon."

Stiffness and tiredness forgotten, he sat upright and met Sansa's blue eyes blinking at him, clear and bright. The chair crashed to the floor in his haste as he scrambled to her side, grabbed her hand in one of his while the other cupped her cheek.

"You're alive," he breathed, a disbelieving laugh bubbling in his throat. He gripped her tight and pulled her against his chest, lost in the moment of pure joy before she protested with a sharp hiss.

"I'm still a little sore," she murmured and Jon placed her down immediately, only to lean forward and pepper kisses across her forehead, her eyes, her cheek - anywhere he could reach. Sansa snorted and weakly pushed him away. "I feel horrid, Jon!"

"You're radiant, my love," he countered, kissing her temple again and murmuring against her skin. "Gods, Sansa. I thought I had lost you."

"My love?" she echoed as he pulled away, her gaze searching his face for the truth. Jon squeezed her hand once more.

"You are," he whispered. "And I intend to tell you that every day from now on."

Sansa smiled softly. "I think I should like that, my love."


End file.
